PARIS, FRANCE

--

"I am sick of this," Imitate declared, though her voice was merely a murmur. She was perched on a bench amidst the streets of Paris, dressed in some high-end designer dress, with makeup done up to perfection. Large sunglasses were perched upon her nose, and dark red lips were pursed as she surveyed her surroundings with an air of distaste.

Risk and Rebel were perched high on buildings on opposite sides of the street where Imitate sat. Risk had a sniper rifle perched before her and was looking through the scope with practiced focus, while Rebel wasn't aiming down at the streets, instead just keeping his attention on an angle different from that which Risk could see. It was Risk who answered Imitate's murmured statement.

"This is why we typically don't do exchanges," Risk drawled in response, her finger resting above the trigger. Her posture remained relaxed, as Imitate's was below, yet likewise was far more alert.

"This is the exception because Boss wanted 'good terms'," Rebel voiced after his partner.

Imitate didn't bother suppressing her eye roll. Mostly because it couldn't be deciphered with her large sunglasses, anyway. "Being on good terms with others is overrated," she said in her faux French accent. She was playing her part well. "I think--" she began to say, but she cut off when she saw a particular man ambling down the street.

Tall, with slouching shoulders and bulging arms, he looked the part of an irritable henchman. He wore all black, and his dark hair was too slick and shoved to one side. From above, Risk could see how beady his eyes were; the tense set of his jaw.

She followed him closely, ever on alert.

Meanwhile, Imitate extended a ghost of a smile, somehow managing to be apathetic yet beautiful. When the man drew closer to her and hesitated beside her, she gestured down to the bench and murmured, "Please, sit," maintaining her accent.

With a grunt he acquiesced, and over the com, Rebel said, "Brutish fellow, hm?"

Somehow Imitate restrained any smile she might've otherwise displayed. Risk half-smirked, though truthfully, most of her attention was on the man, through the scope. Amber eyes glowing mystically in the light of the rapidly setting sun, now hanging just a little over the buildings.

Risk listened to Imitate and the contact's conversation absentmindedly, her mind trained on picking up key words or undesired rises in volume. Rebel watched on through binoculars, as thought waiting for any cues his partner may miss. He knew Risk was on high alert, but at the same time, he disliked everything about this scenario.

"You have the money?" the Brute eventually asked, after a short exchange of pleasantries.

"Oui," Imitate agreed, moving to flip her clutch open.

All movement froze when the Brute wrapped a hand around her lithe wrist, too-large fingers pressing into delicate skin.

Risk's finger shifted to the trigger, her mouth thinning out into a determined line.

"Je n'ai pas confiance que vous n'avez aucune arme," the Brute grumbled, not relinquishing his hold. "Votre patron est notoire."

"Risk," Rebel said, though his warning was unnecessary.

"His French is too good for a German," Risk acknowledged, both to her partner, and as a warning for Imitate.

Not that the linguist expert needed to hear such a thing -- she had already determined that on her own.

"And you know surprisingly good French," Imitate responded primly, her façade never falling.

"Give me the purse," he commanded, retrieving a weapon from the back of his pants and tightening his hold on Imitate's wrist in the same second.

An irritable fire ignited in Imitate's silvery eyes, her dark lips pursing in something akin to rage. "That is not how exchanges work," she said, continuing with the charade.

"I do not care for your exchange," the Brute scowled.

"And I do not care that you are about to die," Imitate said in plain, flawless English.

The Brute hardly had enough time for surprise to flicker across his eyes. The shot was silent, and aimed perfectly; he fell dead at the exact moment that Imitate yanked her hand away. She turned and flounced away quickly, both counterparts of Team Alpha already in motion as well.

The mission had not gone to plan. Boss wouldn't be pleased.

But that was the problem of whoever had decided they didn't want to work with him.

--

"Oui." Yes.
"Je n'ai pas confiance que vous n'avez aucune arme." I don't trust that you have no weapon.
"Votre patron est notoire." Your boss is notorious.